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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26739643">Sorrow Twines Her Thorns Unceasing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/pseuds/stonecoldsilly'>stonecoldsilly</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort, Depression, Disordered Eating, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Depression, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Thinks He Is a Monster, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Happy Ending, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:41:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,136</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26739643</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/pseuds/stonecoldsilly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>‘I know who you are. You’re the Witcher... Geralt of Rivia.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ten winters have passed since the last time someone said his name. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The Butcher of Blaviken is cursed with a spell of despair.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>800</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Part I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/writterings/gifts">writterings</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this fic is for the wonderful Nate's birthday! you are a treasure and so supportive, i do not deserve you &lt;3<br/>please check the tags, Geralt is very sad and this may hurt a little before it gets better!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>...</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It starts after Blaviken.</p>
<p>At first, he doesn’t notice, still reeling from Renfri’s death, from Marilka’s cold eyes, from the anger that churns under his skin when he thinks of Stregobor’s smirk.</p>
<p>It creeps up on him, until there is no other explanation.</p>
<p>He is cursed - by Stregobor, by Renfri, by Lillit herself screaming vengeance from the sky, it matters not.</p>
<p>It works on him regardless.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When he reaches the first town after the massacre, word has already spread. Screams ring out as he approaches. Doors and shutters close against him, people fleeing from his gaze. </p>
<p>He stands alone in an abandoned square, the tatters of market stalls upturned in the haste to flee him, bolts of cloth flapping gently in the breeze. </p>
<p>A child cries out, three houses over, and he can hear its mother weep and beg the gods for mercy from the Butcher, pleas fervent and haunting in his ears.</p>
<p>Bile rises in his mouth at the sound of her racing heart, the cracked note in her voice as she tries to calm her child and shield it from his notice.</p>
<p>He nearly weeps himself then, and picks through what remains of a grocer’s stall as hurriedly as he can, leaving the coin prominently on display.</p>
<p>He can hear the clang of armour, of men girding themselves to run him off, though their knees shake with fear, and climbs back onto Roach as quickly as he can manage, galloping out of town to avoid another battle, another slaughter.</p>
<p>He never wanted this, but he deserves it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The curse takes hold with a swiftness that is startling. </p>
<p>He escapes Redania as quickly as he can, searching for some respite from the terror his appearance provokes, but rumour travels faster than a Witcher can, humans warning each other about the monster that could appear to darken their own doors, and every word is truth.</p>
<p>Oathbreaker, they call him. Butcher, reaper, monster, killer.</p>
<p>
  <em>Murderer.</em>
</p>
<p>He cannot explain, and no one will give him a moment’s pause to summon his excuses. </p>
<p>Word spreads, and no matter where he turns, humans flee, or sneer, or scream. </p>
<p>They chase him from their villages and towns, threatened by the mere appearance of the rogue Witcher, and he wanders the Path without respite.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The curse twists and bucks, sinking into his head and attacking his sleep first.</p>
<p>He wakes from nightmares with a pounding heart, Renfri’s last words echoing in his ear, his throat dry and aching.</p>
<p>Then the world begins to fade and dim in his vision, and there is a heaviness in his chest that anchors him to the ground, tethers him in place even as the landscape shifts and changes around him.</p>
<p>He walks, and rides, and the countryside blurs from forest to mountain to plains once more, but a part of him is always standing in that marketplace in Blaviken, Renfri slipping from his arms.</p>
<p>If he looks down, he is afraid he will see her body there, even with his waking eyes.</p>
<p>Even the smallest setback in battle will rouse his temper for hours; a missed strike, a loose stone making him slip, even Roach not arriving swiftly enough at his call.</p>
<p>He paces, fuming and shaking with fury, cursing his poor fortune until the storm passes and what little energy he has is drained clear away, leaving him weary and maudlin at his own foolishness once more.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The curse tightens, a noose that chokes him.</p>
<p>The leaves change and fall off the trees, and he keeps putting off going to Kaer Morhen, until the first snow falls, and the relief he feels now that the decision is out of his hands is stronger than anything he’s felt in weeks. </p>
<p>He doesn’t want to have to face his brothers, see their disappointment and disgust, and have them suffer his presence, trapped in one keep all winter where they can’t avoid him, or worse, make them ask him to leave.</p>
<p>The gates will be barred to him now, the same as they are to any other Witcher who had turned rogue, and when he realises he has singlehandedly made their Paths harder, that they too might feel the consequences of his foolish actions, his breath turns hollow in his lungs, the weight of his guilt too hard to think through. </p>
<p>He comes to himself hours later, trembling for the cold, cheeks damp and eyes burning. He stares at the same patch of tree trunk for hours from the little hollow he finds himself in, teeth chattering, mind blissfully blank. </p>
<p>Roach makes her way to him eventually and snuffs at his hair, and he jerks, flinching from the unexpected touch.</p>
<p>The last time someone touched him was the uncurling of Renfri’s cold hand from the edge of his shirt, and he shakes awake in the dawn, riddled with wanting. </p>
<p>There is ash in his mouth, and his lungs feel hollow and weak in his chest, caught and gasping like a landed fish, sucking in reedy little gulps of air as his mind fractures under the weight of his despair.</p>
<p>He sees her sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, in the gaps between trees or the space between the stars, and each vision smiles the same sharp toothed grin as his own.  </p>
<p> </p>
<p>….</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The curse tightens its grip and turns all his thoughts to misery.</p>
<p>The food he gets, when he gets it, is bland and tasteless, and some nights he can barely muster himself to bother hunting and goes to sleep hungry. </p>
<p>He catches a glimpse of himself in a placid lake one evening, and startles before he realises. He is hollow and shrunken, pale skin stretched over sharp bones. His armour fits him poorly, and is worn and tattered, in need of repair or replacement, with coin he does not have.</p>
<p>He still manages to care for Roach, if barely, grateful that the curse allows him that much, that at least he can make sure she is fed, and he braves even the worst towns to keep her shod and healthy. He talks to her a lot more than he did before, now that he is more likely to receive a stoning than a smile from a human, and she seems to appreciate it, flicking her ears in his direction when he speaks.</p>
<p>He listens at the edges of human settlements for work, hiding from view and never daring to cause another panic. He waits until someone mentions a curse or a monster, and then approaches them directly, hooded and cloaked in the hush of darkness, accepting any coin for any contract. </p>
<p>He slips unseen through the world, and if it is even lonelier than before, then it is only his own doing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The first year is a nightmare, and it does not stop, it does not cease, it does not end. </p>
<p>It only gets worse.</p>
<p>He barely makes enough coin to keep Roach’s shoes in order, and as the Continent hears of his infamy, he starts to forget what a moment’s succour with another soul feels like.</p>
<p>The memories of the night with Renfri are tainted utterly by the haunting of her eyes clouding over in death, and desire abandons him completely.</p>
<p>The viciousness he receives when spotted at the edges of town is enough to warn him that he will not be welcome at a brothel, even to lay in the presence of another, and he cannot spare the money for it. </p>
<p>He can feel his grip slipping.</p>
<p>The Witcher and his horse ride on, for days, weeks, years, centuries unchanging.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The curse tightens its hold, and there is only numb acceptance left to him now. He scrapes what little fight he has left into his contracts, and he manages. </p>
<p>He is worn down to the bone in Posada. There is a tavern, with the sounds of merriment pouring from the windows and the happy cheers of humans ringing through his head. He wants so badly he can taste it, and he slips inside and sits, quiet and still, in the corner, praying for five minutes of solace. The barmaid even serves him an ale, distracted and talking over her shoulder to the innkeeper, and he sips at his bounty carefully, stretching out the moment as long as he can. </p>
<p>He watches the patrons, smiling and joking and talking, wistful with a longing he can no longer bear to conceal. If he stays as still as he can, fades into the background, doesn’t bother anyone, then perhaps he can eke out a minute more of warm sunshine, pretending to be one of them. </p>
<p>The table is empty, as it always is, and if he doesn’t look away from the opposite wall, then perhaps he can imagine that Eskel has just gone to fetch another round, or that Lambert is about to walk in and greet him with his usual biting humour.</p>
<p>He used to shy away from feeble fantasies, knowing how bitter reality is when it washes back in and reasserts itself, but after a decade, all he has are daydreams.  </p>
<p>He pretends his company has stepped away for just a moment, and tries to remember what Eskel’s booming laugh used to sound like, or Vesemir’s gruff tones, and the loneliness stabs all the deeper.</p>
<p>He listens to the music, and the tavern-goers throw bread at the bard playing in the corner. </p>
<p>A small step from bread to stones, he thinks, wincing in sympathy.</p>
<p>The bard turns his head, and looks straight at him.</p>
<p>The Witcher lets his eyes flick back to the wall, the empty table, anywhere else.</p>
<p>A flutter of breath, and his legs shift under the table, ready to run.</p>
<p>The bard approaches.</p>
<p>He has not realised what the Witcher is.</p>
<p>There is no mistaking him, even at a distance, the Witcher is recognisable as a ghost from tales to terrify children, from wanted posters and nightmares that stretch their shadows across kingdoms.</p>
<p>The bard steps closer, and he freezes, anticipating the blow, the pointed finger, the yell to alert his fellow humans to what has managed to sneak inside their safe tavern. His instincts fail him, and he is stuck in place, waiting for the screams and the silence.</p>
<p>The bard speaks to him, and the Witcher can barely make out a word over the roaring in his ears.</p>
<p>The bard smiles at him, and sits down at the empty table.</p>
<p>The bard smiles at him. </p>
<p>He blinks, and time slips through his fingers. He speaks, voice rusty and croaking with disuse, waiting for the trap to descend. </p>
<p>Then the bard works out what he is, and the Witcher escapes before the curse can wind itself up to strike again and leave more bodies in his wake.  </p>
<p>‘I know who you are. You’re the Witcher... <em>Geralt of Rivia</em>.’</p>
<p>Ten winters have passed since the last time someone said his name. </p>
<p>It rings out strangely, and hangs in the dusty air. </p>
<p>It halts the merriment in the tavern entirely, and he wants to flee, barely holding on while the farmer who corners him talks about devils, as if he does not stand, quaking in his boots, mere feet from one in the flesh. </p>
<p>He honours the farmer’s courage, and what must be desperate need, to face such a horror as he in the daylight hours when the human world should be safe. </p>
<p>He stands firm and accepts the contract, as quickly as he can, and then leaves the tavern, and the little peace he found there behind.</p>
<p>The bard follows him. </p>
<p>His shoulders hunch tight, and he focuses on Roach, his grip on the reins flexing and shifting as his knuckles turn white. </p>
<p>The boy babbles and mocks him. The cruelties of humans are well known to him, though to pretend interest in being the barker of the Butcher is a new one. Better to warn of his approach. </p>
<p>He does not turn to look, but he does not know why the bard follows him. Perhaps he was dared to brave a conversation with the Witcher. Or he plays distraction to keep his attention off an ambush.</p>
<p>He cannot rally the strength to care. Weariness sucks at the marrow of him. </p>
<p>The bard calls him Butcher, and the anger shrieks and coats his tongue with bile, that even the succour of hearing his own name once more should be stripped from him. He snaps and punches the boy, a dog too beaten down to know what kindness is anymore.</p>
<p>He strides on, and the bard follows.</p>
<p>The bard questions him, and he tries to ignore him and concentrate on the reality of the contract, but answers slip from him regardless. </p>
<p>The bard says his name, and each repetition sets his slow heart pounding, head dizzy, trying and failing to keep this phantom at the edge of his vision where it belongs. </p>
<p>They reach the devil’s den, and he waves away the wishing. The coin purse he got from the farmer is real and noisy when he taps it, and the boy is too colourful and bold to be anything but a haunting. </p>
<p>He tries and fails to focus on the contract. </p>
<p>The trap is baited, and he steps in anyway.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The world spins back into focus, and he can feel the warmth of the bard behind him, but he cannot <em>see</em> him.</p>
<p>He bares his throat to the elf-king, and pleads as best he can for the boy’s life. He too, knows what it is to be subject to the hatred of humans, but the only difference between them is that he earned it. If this is to be his end, then it is a kinder one than he deserves. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Geralt walks out of Filavandrel’s trap a free man, and the bard follows him.</p>
<p>Geralt rides on Roach, and makes camp, and the bard follows him.</p>
<p>Geralt wakes up the next morning, and the bard follows him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He has to check Jaskier’s scent every time the wind shifts.</p>
<p>His mind has played tricks on him before, and the sudden appearance of a charming companion, when Geralt is at his lowest, could be the work of any number of monsters. The curse could be growing in power, twisting his mind further against him. </p>
<p>He does not dare touch the bard, though it would be easier to believe with reality in his grip.</p>
<p>He watches what the bard touches, what he moves and shifts around their shared fire, and the bedrolls are moved in truth, not merely hallucinated. </p>
<p>He listens for Jaskier’s breathing, in case he rolls over one night and all trace of him is gone completely.</p>
<p>Sometimes, Jaskier steps close enough for Geralt to feel the heat rising off his body, and it makes his skin ache, shudders skittering in little shivers down his spine.</p>
<p>Jaskier is beautiful and clever, a merry man by nature, and so <em>kind</em>.</p>
<p>Geralt has done nothing to earn his company, but he is grateful for it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>… </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He hunts for whatever he thinks Jaskier will fancy, and he slowly regains some of his shed weight as the bard fusses at him to eat more, to bow to the routine of breaking fast and fetching dinner suitable for a human’s constitution.</p>
<p>He submits to bearing the hostile stares of humans and follows him to inns and taverns across the land. Jaskier sings songs of love and songs of Witcher’s battles, and people cheer and applaud. If Geralt is barred from entering, then Jaskier will not either, and he cannot bring the scales to weigh equally between them by any measure, for all the bard does. </p>
<p>He makes sure Jaskier at least, is dry and warm and safe when he sleeps, too used to keeping watch himself for it to make much difference. </p>
<p>It is a paltry offering, in return for the muted happiness Geralt feels when Jaskier smiles at him, but it is all he can do. </p>
<p>Sometimes, when Jaskier plays his lute by the light of the fire, he almost forgets the curse entirely.</p>
<p>There are days when he can listen to Jaskier talk, and lose himself in the stories he tells, and the day flies past despite their steady pace.</p>
<p>There are days when he travels alone, even with company, senses too dull to make out individual words, where food and water sometimes appear before him, and sometimes don’t, and it makes little difference either way. </p>
<p>There are days when even with Jaskier there and present and real beside him, the bard seems to slip out of his eyesight, and he is cold to his bones, and it takes all his strength just to keep one foot in front of the other.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The idea that he could let Jaskier take care of Roach, just once, just for one day, so that he might sleep, and not have to face the world at all, the notion winds through his mind and trembles sweetly at the edge of every thought. </p>
<p>He holds the line there, but barely.</p>
<p>If he succumbs that far, there is no telling if he will ever get up again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sometimes Jaskier and Roach feel more like burdens than anything else, now that he has two creatures dependent on him, when he must watch over them, keep them safe, protect them and keep them well fed.</p>
<p>He manages, one day at a time.</p>
<p>Guilt keeps him company, when he is unfit for anything else. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>…</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It is a blur when it happens.</p>
<p>He follows Jaskier to a tavern, in a town he does not know the name of, and a man in fine armour bumps his shoulder viciously as he passes through the door.</p>
<p>Geralt startles, trained to fend off attacks since before he can remember.</p>
<p>His traitorous hand is on the hilt of his sword before he can even turn his head to face the man in armour, and then the screams begin.</p>
<p>The drinkers abandon their pints and run, a swarm of madly scrabbling people pushing to escape. Yells of ‘Butcher’ ring in his ears, and he loses Jaskier in the rush and the fury.</p>
<p>A whole table of armed men rises in defence of their own, pinning him to the ground, forcing him to his knees, swords drawn and smiles savage.</p>
<p>He does not move, does not fight, does not twist his hand into Aard and push them off, just lets his body go limp against the biting grip shackled in his hair, only his eyes betraying his wildness, frantic to see Jaskier once more.</p>
<p>‘The Butcher of Blaviken.’ The armoured man sneers, and his men await the final order. </p>
<p>‘Stop.’ Jaskier’s sweet voice rings out too loudly, as the tavern empties behind him, and Geralt closes his eyes in fear. </p>
<p>He cannot watch this. </p>
<p>He cannot watch Jaskier fall.</p>
<p>‘When a wolf turns on you, you put it down like a dog.’ The man jeers, and Jaskier snarls in answer.</p>
<p>Geralt’s eyes betray him and open, and he finds Jaskier, standing proud and brave, defending the Butcher alone. </p>
<p>He shakes his head against the wrenching grip, desperate. <em>Leave</em>, he thinks, <em>please, don’t make me see this.</em> </p>
<p>The armoured man steps closer, and Geralt can hear the creak of his leather gloves as he nods at his men and turns to face Jaskier.</p>
<p>‘You will not touch him.’ Brave Jaskier. He tries to look resolute, and hopes Jaskier will know how grateful he is before the end.</p>
<p>‘And who be you to give me orders, boy?’</p>
<p>Jaskier’s posture shifts, the jovial bard slipping away in front of Geralt’s eyes. He doesn’t move an inch, but he seems taller, the candlelight playing over his face illuminating something darker beneath.</p>
<p>‘The Viscount de Lettenhove. And I am perfectly amenable to settling this in arbitration, if necessary.’ </p>
<p>Jaskier’s ever-present smile turns cold and brittle. </p>
<p>‘For this freak?’</p>
<p>‘Release him.’ Jaskier says, prowling closer to the guards, tone deceptively mild, the hush of his voice echoing strangely across the stone floors. ‘Or I’ll have you whipped for your insolence.’</p>
<p>‘Your Grace.’ The man’s face twists, expression hideous and bitter. ‘I’m sure the Earl will be delighted to hear news of your doings.’</p>
<p>Jaskier snaps his head round and glares at him.</p>
<p>The sword at his throat scrapes over the edge of his armour with a threatening hiss, but the clutching grip of the guardsmen eases on his shoulders. </p>
<p>Jaskier strides over and hauls him to his feet, ignoring the mutters of the men around them, and then a firm hand is on his arm, Jaskier nudging him out of the door, and keeping his own fragile little body between the Witcher and the guards.</p>
<p>Geralt scrambles to keep up, vision blurred and still shaking. </p>
<p>When they reach the stables again, Jaskier checks to make sure they aren’t being followed and then almost reaches out, visibly stopping himself.</p>
<p>His eyes catch on Geralt’s hands, trembling despite his best efforts, but he can still hold a sword if necessary.</p>
<p>‘Can you run?’ He asks, eyes darting to Roach.</p>
<p>‘Yes. It’ll be faster.’ </p>
<p>Jaskier mounts Roach easily, and looks at him once, nodding. </p>
<p>They burst through the stable doors together, Roach carrying Jaskier at a steady canter and Geralt keeping pace alongside, letting out some of the battle-readiness churning his blood as his boots pound the flagstones.</p>
<p>Jaskier glances over his shoulder behind them and spurs Roach into a gallop, and Geralt lets him keep watch for once, using all his hard-won speed to run alongside as fast as he can.</p>
<p>They flee into the woods beyond the town, and stop only when Roach tires.</p>
<p>Jaskier slides off her back, and stands, fists clenched, in the clearing while Geralt whispers hushed praise in her ear and unsaddles her swiftly, leading her round in circles to cool her down.</p>
<p>Jaskier’s breath is unsteady, and Geralt keeps his eyes down, awaiting his fury, pacing alongside Roach as the bard’s heart trembles wildly in his chest, filling the hollow grove like the tension of a drumbeat.</p>
<p>A tang of salt stirs on the breeze, and Jaskier rounds on him, eyes wet and lip trembling.</p>
<p>‘Why didn’t you fight back?’</p>
<p>Geralt stares.</p>
<p>‘You didn’t fight Filavandrel either. You asked him to spare my life, not yours. Why don’t you ever <em>fight</em>?’</p>
<p>There are no words to explain the way the curse saps his strength, but if he owes anyone in the world the truth, it is the man before him.</p>
<p>He takes a halting breath, and the truth wavers out from his lips before he can soften it.</p>
<p>‘I don’t want to do this anymore. I can’t. I never wanted to hurt anybody.’</p>
<p>His knees falter beneath him at the heaviness of it, and the world swims before him. Then Jaskier is there, kneeling with him, fine silks sullied by mud and face strewn with tears.</p>
<p>‘Geralt.’ Jaskier weeps, and reaches out a warm hand to touch his. The weight of it, the feel of his skin, it unlocks the screaming corner of his head where he is trapped and helpless. He huffs out another weak breath, and lets himself reach back, as gently as he can, as though caught in a dream.</p>
<p>Jaskier lets out a tiny cracked sob, and clutches his hand tightly. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s not.’</p>
<p>He shakes his head once, and makes sure to look Jaskier in the eye, so he can see the honesty in his words.</p>
<p>‘I killed her, I did, and now I’m cursed, and I can’t escape it. I’m exactly what they call me. A freak, a monster.’</p>
<p>Jaskier grabs his shoulders and shakes him gently, before he can even blink.</p>
<p>‘Geralt, you’re not, I swear.’ He tears his gaze away, shame and guilt clenching his stomach tight with nerves. Jaskier is too willing to believe in the kindness of others, heart brimming with easy care for even such a lost cause. </p>
<p>‘Look at me. Look at me.’ Haltingly, he meets Jaskier’s eyes, blue and wet with tears.</p>
<p>‘You’re not a freak. You’re not a monster. You’re the kindest man I’ve ever met. And you are a man, not a monster. Please, Geralt. Please, you tried your best.’</p>
<p>‘You don’t even know what happened.’ He says, frantic to stem the tide of honey-sweet words.</p>
<p>‘I know you. I know you Geralt. You would never slaughter innocents. I would never believe that of you, not if Melitele herself came down and told me.’</p>
<p>‘I killed them, and I killed her, and I deserve what’s coming to me.’</p>
<p>‘Never. I won’t let you. You don’t deserve any of this. I swear to you Geralt, I can help you. I will, as best I’m able. Allow me the chance to try. Please. Before…’ He falters, and then swallows harshly.</p>
<p>‘Before you do anything drastic.’</p>
<p>The words hang in the air between them, and Geralt is rigid with tension, muscles straining to run.</p>
<p>‘I’m not…‘</p>
<p>All those slippery silver-spun thoughts that glide through his head before he goes to sleep are tugged to the forefront of his mind, thinking of how his worn armour will mean his death sooner rather than later, and struggling to muster the energy to care.</p>
<p>He would not actively court death, any more than usual for a Witcher, but its wings cast a shadow over him regardless.</p>
<p>Jaskier watches him, and they are both breathless in the pause. </p>
<p>He gulps, mouth dry, and his teeth click as he closes his mouth again helplessly.</p>
<p>‘Please. Geralt. Come with me for the winter, please.’</p>
<p>Jaskier is on his knees, begging him. There is little he would not do for more of the bard’s kindness, and he nods, hollowed out and exhausted.</p>
<p>Jaskier surges into his arms and clutches him so tightly his armour creaks at the force of it. Warm drops trickle onto his skin, and a little wisp of wonder unfurls in his chest, that he has stirred the bard to tears, that Jaskier reaches for him, and does not flinch when Geralt haltingly reaches back.</p>
<p>Jaskier truly cares for him, he does, and that knowledge is enough to make him bring his own hands up to the bard’s back and tug him a little closer.</p>
<p>Jaskier does not let go, does not wince or shudder at his touch, and Geralt shakes to pieces in his arms, trembling at the warmth of him, real and breathing and alive in his grasp.</p>
<p>They sit together on the ground, and Jaskier winds a hand up to his hair and strokes through it gently, face stained with streaks of salt, lit golden and true in the sunset.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>my apologies for the delay, i am shame, but this turned into a much bigger sausage than i had planned, at long last, the comfort!!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>…</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier takes him further inland as the leaves turn red and brittle around them, though Geralt’s pace is sluggish, even by his standards.</p><p>His words abandon him entirely for days after he spoke with Jaskier, as though the curse is punishing him for revealing its presence. </p><p>Jaskier smiles at him each morning, limned in chill sunlight, and he shakes his head mutely in response. </p><p>He still talks to Geralt, telling stories, weaving fine tales from thin air about a boy and his trusty horse, and all the adventures they have together. One riveting quest in particular stretches over a gripping three days, and he forgets about the curse completely, enthralled in the bard’s words, shaking him awake at dawn to hear the next instalment as soon as possible. By the end of it, his mouth unsticks entirely, too awed by Jaskier’s skill to worry over how feeble his praise sounds.</p><p>‘How do you do that?’ </p><p>‘All we do is tell each other stories, Geralt. When a husband asks his wife how her day was, when someone tells you about a contract, when I ask you about the weather… Every question, every conversation, is a story. I practiced, so that I might be very good at them.’</p><p>Geralt hums in response and lets the thought roll around his mind. Jaskier has put no less effort into his words than Geralt did when learning to fight, though his art may not be so lethal, it is by no means less vital. He is truly gifted, and Geralt tries his best to show his appreciation, listening carefully to every word the bard speaks or sings or mutters under his breath.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>They reach a manor house a week later, and Jaskier explains it as one of the holdings of his family’s estate more commonly used during the summer.</p><p>Jaskier is recognised as they draw closer, and a hustle of people attend to him in the village, calling out greetings and busying themselves to attend to his every order. He is so different to watch when throwing out commands left and right, a world away from the foppish fool Geralt first thought him.</p><p>There is a skeleton staff employed at the house, and Jaskier apologises to the butler for not sending word before they arrived. The servants line up to greet them, and Geralt stands by Jaskier’s side, unwilling to be more than a few paces from him and wishing he was somewhere far from here.</p><p>Jaskier beckons the stablehand closer and gives him clipped and precise instructions about caring for Roach, more than Geralt would ever have asked for. </p><p>As soon as they are alone, Jaskier steps into Geralt’s arms and holds him close. Tension drains from his body at the warmth of his touch, and he can’t help but betray a little sigh of relief huffed quietly into his neck.</p><p>‘Did any of them smell scared? Or afraid?’</p><p>Geralt pulls back to look at him searchingly.</p><p>Jaskier strokes a comforting hand down his spine, and that alone is enough to pull truth from his lips.</p><p>‘The blonde maid. And the boy in the kitchens. The rest were just nervous.’</p><p>‘Thank you for telling me, Geralt.’ </p><p>Jaskier takes his hand and leads him to a comfortable room, less opulent than he would have expected from their surroundings, but still grander than anything he can remember.</p><p>Then he notices Roach’s saddlebags leaning by the bed, and balks entirely, shaking his head frantically.</p><p>‘It’s too much, Jaskier, I can’t…’ He doesn’t know how to explain how small he feels just standing here, in this light airy room, where honoured guests might stay, not just useless tagalongs.</p><p>Jaskier watches him patiently, but he can’t find the words to make Jaskier understand, and just lets his shoulders slump. </p><p>‘Come on then, you can kip with me.’ Jaskier grabs the saddlebags quickly and leads him down the corridor to his own room, faint stale scents of Jaskier’s perfume still lingering in the corners. ‘I get awfully chilly in the winter, so it’s just as well. My room gets terrible drafts, no matter how well the fire is banked. I will warn you, I’m told I have a tendency towards cuddling.’</p><p>Jaskier actually looks sheepish at this, and the first sign of genuine shyness from the normally confident bard is enough to make Geralt smile outright. </p><p>‘I don’t mind.’</p><p>Jaskier goes a lovely shade of pink, and quickly busies himself with his wardrobe, hands flapping by his sides. </p><p>He moves on swiftly, and takes Geralt on a tour of the house, making sure he knows every room.</p><p>Jaskier shows him the library, hundreds of books on every conceivable topic. His eyes betray him, flickering over the spines to try and catch as many of the titles as he can. Jaskier tilts his head, and reels him closer, holding his hand as though he has nothing to fear.</p><p>‘You can come here as often as you like, day or night, and read as much as you want to.’ He says, explicitly giving Geralt permission.<br/>
‘I want you to be at home here. I want you to feel safe, and comfortable, and happy, if we can manage it. The whole estate is at your disposal, if you want to read, or join me in my study, or ride Roach, or if you want to spend your days in absolute leisure, learning to play the lute and eating only the finest grapes sourced just for you from Toussaint, then I will make it happen. I really do want you to feel at home.’</p><p>He just stares, speechless. He can’t scent a lie on Jaskier at all. </p><p>Jaskier steps away, and busies himself with some books, pink at the ears.</p><p>Geralt is still reeling when Jaskier leads him to the kitchens and introduces him to the cook again. Geralt stands awkwardly as she plants a wet kiss on Jaskier’s cheek and smacks him on the rump with a ladle. She clucks over Geralt as well, promising to fatten them both up, and extends a merry invitation to come and see her anytime, telling cheerful tales of a much younger Jaskier always underfoot. Even Geralt smiles at the picture he would have made, a little terror demanding attention and sweets. </p><p>They make their way back up to the library and Geralt dares to ask where the kitchen boy went, the one who was afraid. </p><p>Jaskier meets his gaze and tells him that the boy was reassigned, along with the maid who’d smelled of fear as well.</p><p>Geralt just stares at him for a long moment, disbelievingly.</p><p>‘Look, you would hardly be comfortable around them. And I don’t want them to be uneasy either. It works out for everyone.’</p><p>‘Jaskier, I…’ </p><p>Words fail him again, that Jaskier would even think of something so small, just for the sake of his comfort, but he nods anyway, and Jaskier turns and walks down the corridor, beams of sunlight catching in his hair as he passes the windows. </p><p>Geralt follows.</p><p> </p><p>… </p><p> </p><p>Jaskier’s father arrives the next night, and Geralt paces outside the study and listens to them arguing for hours. It begins with Geralt’s presence, and then devolves into a shouting match, old wounds and stern words bellowed at each other, Jaskier dancing round his arguments and spinning the old man into a tangle of logic that sends him seething from the house before midnight, storming off in high dudgeon, but unable to change his son’s mind. </p><p>Jaskier calls Geralt in, and Geralt takes the initiative to reach for him first, letting Jaskier calm down in his arms.</p><p>He reports victory; that the Earl will not interfere with Jaskier’s plans, and Geralt doesn’t dare ask what it cost him.</p><p>Jaskier sends his measurements to the local tailors and fills his wardrobe with new clothes. When Geralt protests, he explains that the business will be good for the tailor, and cajoles him into at least trying them on.</p><p>They fit well, compared to how baggy his old clothes are on him now, and though he’d feared some outlandish outfits to match Jaskier’s tastes, the colours are mostly blacks and greys, practical designs instead of ruffles and lace. He thanks Jaskier awkwardly, and is rewarded with yet another smile.</p><p>He summons a healer, and asks Geralt discreetly if he would prefer Jaskier to leave him in peace, or to stay with him, and seems mollified when Geralt tugs him closer in answer.</p><p>The healer is calm enough in his presence, and checks him over, prescribing nutrient potions with every meal to help him regain his lost strength, and traditional herb mixtures for his temperament, which he takes dutifully according to her instructions, and soon his sharp edges begin to soften under all the regular and plentiful meals. </p><p>Jaskier spends hours in his study, and Geralt tends to join him there with a book, as he writes letters and missives and songs and invitations, quill scratching ceaselessly on fine parchment. He makes sure Jaskier is fed at the appropriate times, and pulls him away from his work every so often, making sure he takes a break and doesn’t work until the small hours of the morning.</p><p>It is often difficult to do, but Jaskier will let himself be persuaded to take a turn about the grounds, or play Geralt a song when requested, or if Geralt gets too restless, he will take down his sword from over the mantelpiece and spar with him until they are both sweaty and exhausted.</p><p>He takes Roach out for a daily ride, and lets himself enjoy the pace of life here, surveying the borders of the estate and exploring the moors that overlook the valley. There are no monsters here, the land too well-tamed to hold them, and though he cannot earn his keep, it is the first time in years he has stopped to pay any attention to his surroundings and simply look about him. </p><p>It reminds him of Kaer Morhen, bittersweet remembrances of what he’s lost, though with Jaskier’s constant reassurances he knows he is welcome here now, and it does start to feel more homely as he learns the rhythm of the place. He doesn’t have to worry about where his next meal will come from, or how to keep Roach in shoes. There is safety here, even for him, under Jaskier’s protection.</p><p>Visitors trickle into the manor, slowly at first, and then in a flood as Jaskier’s letters rouse them. He meets with ambassadors, knights and nobles by day, with the full courtesies and pomp due their station, and then elves, dwarves and mages creep to the manor by night, clandestine for their own protection. </p><p>Geralt never sits with Jaskier at the meetings, though Jaskier professes to be unashamed of him, but there is little he knows of politics, and he does not want to get in the way. He stands in a hidden alcove, not five paces from Jaskier’s chair, and listens to every word of honey-spun persuasion, sword bared, prepared at every moment to guard Jaskier with his life.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Geralt is on the far side of the house when he hears it. A heartbeat so slow and dull it can only belong to another Witcher.</p><p>He <em>runs</em> through the gardens, as he never has before, never in all his training or all his battles, sprinting desperately to reach Jaskier before the Witcher does; if they are a threat, if they come to seek revenge for his shame, if he cannot save him.</p><p>He runs.</p><p>He rounds the corner, and sees him, recognising Eskel from his bulk alone, unmistakable, and too close to Jaskier for him to reach in time. </p><p>Eskel wheels around and closes on him instead, and he bares his teeth, finally willing to fight, righteous fury rising in Jaskier’s defence.</p><p>Eskel lunges and bears him to the ground, a thousand spars and battles echoing in his mind, and Geralt almost punches his teeth clean out of his head before his gabbled words slant sideways and make sense in his mind once more.</p><p>‘Geralt, we thought you were dead, you stupid sod.’</p><p>Eskel near squeezes the life from him with the strength of his hug, holding him so fiercely that he looks to Jaskier helplessly.</p><p>Jaskier just smiles at him fondly and heads swiftly back into the house, letting them reunite in privacy.</p><p>Eskel heaves him closer, until he is wrestled flat to the ground, and then his brother smothers him, letting his whole bulk rest on Geralt and pressing his ear to his chest to listen closer to his heart.</p><p>‘What are you doing here?’ Geralt says, when he manages to stop the prickling in his eyes. Eskel is so warm, and the sheer size of him is enough to block out the whole world. </p><p>‘Your bard put out notices all over the place, asking for a Witcher from the Wolf School, and gods I’m glad I answered. I have to head to Kaer Morhen before winter hits so I can tell the others, but I can stay for a couple of weeks.’</p><p>His hands are shaking, and Eskel cradles his head in gentle hands and tucks Geralt close into the crook of his neck, where that familiar scent is strongest.  </p><p>Geralt just breathes, and even in his most desperate hour he’d never dared hope for this. </p><p>He feels unmoored, shaken to his core, and he owes Jaskier more than he can ever hope to repay.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Eskel settles into the estate well, polite to the servants and openly cheerful around Jaskier.</p><p>They often all end up in front of the fireplace together in the evening, listening to Jaskier’s stories or sharing sweet-wine and ganging up on Geralt to tease him gently. </p><p>Jaskier and Eskel talk, sometimes. He tries not to listen, and goes to the other side of the house to give them some privacy, but the little prickle of curiosity is hard to ignore. </p><p>They don’t talk about him, and Geralt is beyond grateful that he doesn’t have to hear it.</p><p>Instead Jaskier asks Eskel for all the stories he knows about Witchers, the names of all the towns and villages saved from monsters in the past sixty years, no matter how far flung. Eskel sounds a little bewildered, but he does his best, dredging up old stories they’d been told as lessons when they were trainees as examples for them to emulate.</p><p>Jaskier thanks him profusely, and then asks Eskel to check up on him, so Geralt quickly attempts to look busy with Roach’s tack and lets himself be swept off to spar together in the courtyard.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t notice for a while, but Jaskier disappears.</p><p>Eskel is there, warm and solid and real beside him, distracting him with everything he’s missed for the last decade, catching up on Lambert’s latest exploits and tales of Vesemir’s growing collection of home-made spirits.</p><p>They are sitting in the grounds, enjoying the last gasp of autumn, when it finally comes up again. </p><p>‘We mourned you, little brother. They’ll be so pleased.’</p><p>‘I still…’</p><p>He is a murderer, and he has singlehandedly brought shame on the reputation of Witchers everywhere.</p><p>‘I don’t care about Blaviken. None of us do. You’re alive. There’s few enough of us left, Geralt, and Jaskier told me some of how he found you. Even if you had slain her in truth, there’s nothing you could do that would make me stop loving you.’</p><p>He picks a handful of grass from the immaculate lawn and shreds it nervously, just for something to do with his hands, and then summons all his courage and meets Eskel’s gaze.</p><p>‘If it happens again. If the curse takes my mind, or if I leave a trail of bodies behind me…’</p><p>‘I’ll do what has to be done. You know I will.’ </p><p>Eskel grips his hand firmly, and his face is solemn. Geralt rasps out a single breath of juddering relief, and then heat prickles at his eyes.</p><p>He heaves desperate sobs, that he has to ask Eskel this at all, but the weight of the burden off his shoulders is painful. He cries for Eskel, and he cries for himself, but his brother just steers him up into the nearest bedroom and wraps him in a dozen hastily-sourced blankets, nestling in with him and letting Geralt curl up in his arms even in the middle of the afternoon.</p><p>He sinks into exhausted sleep with Eskel’s low voice rumbling soothingly in his ear, and blinks awake a few hours later with Jaskier tucked in on his other side, running a gentle hand through his hair and talking to Eskel in hushed whispers about provisions for his trip up to Kaer Morhen.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier lets Eskel distract him, and vanishes even further into his work.</p><p>Every time Geralt tries the door to his study, Jaskier shouts that he’s terribly busy, and refuses to be dragged away from his writing even for a moment.</p><p>After three days, Geralt gets fed up, and scales the side of the house instead, tapping on the study window and glowering through the glass at Jaskier, who looks exhausted, splattered with ink and hair sticking up in every direction.</p><p>His shoulders slump, and he shambles over from his paper-strewn desk to let him in.</p><p>‘Jaskier…’ Geralt says sternly.</p><p>‘I just, I have to finish this.’ </p><p>‘You need to rest.’</p><p>‘It’s important.’ He looks almost close to tears, and Geralt relents for a moment.</p><p>‘What are you working on?’</p><p>Jaskier waves a hand dismissively. ‘It’s nothing.’ He tries to head back to his desk, but Geralt steps into his way.</p><p>‘If it’s important, then it’s not nothing.’ He holds Jaskier’s gaze, and tries to search for the words. ‘You’ve helped me so much. Will you not let me do the same?’</p><p>The air in the study feels dim and close, as he waits, hoping that Jaskier trusts him enough for this.</p><p>Jaskier sighs, defeated.</p><p>‘I’ve been writing about Witchers. Eskel gave me enough to work with, the names of villages that may have elders alive still to remember contracts from Witchers who visited before.’</p><p>Geralt blinks. </p><p>‘A book?’ He asks.</p><p>‘Nothing so literary. Pamphlets, short stories, ballads for bards to spread, children’s tales, a few treatises for the Oxenfurt crowd, that sort of thing.’</p><p>He stares helplessly.</p><p>Jaskier scrambles over to the desk, and waves a handful of parchment, heart beating doubletime.</p><p>‘I’ve tailored them, so for example Blackbough in Temeria, they had a Witcher named Coën save them from being completely overrun by a nest of endregas, and that was only fifteen or so years ago, so someone there will remember it.’ He looks almost frantic. ‘I took what details Eskel could give me, and then used some artistic licence, so the story is sound. I know you don’t like it when they’re not true-to-life, but it’s only a children’s song, and I’ll have it sent out by messenger, where it should catch up with one of the Northern troubadour circuits pretty swiftly for this time of year.’</p><p>‘Jaskier, I…’ Pure astonishment makes him hold his tongue.</p><p>Jaskier picks up yet more parchment, scrabbling amongst his stacks and piles of work, anxiously biting his lip.</p><p>‘It’s not finished yet. I haven’t reached all the North in time, and hardly anything south of the Yaruga.’ He clutches the parchment to his chest, and his shoulders slump. ‘I’m sorry.’  </p><p>The sheer outrage that boils through him makes it easy for once, to say what he means. </p><p>‘How could I ever be disappointed? You’re the greatest blessing life has ever given me. Even if you banished me from your side right now, I would never stop being grateful for everything you’ve done.’</p><p>‘Thank you, Geralt. That’s very kind of you.’ Jaskier takes a shaky breath, and slumps tiredly on the side of the desk.</p><p>‘This isn’t your battle to fight. You needn’t take on the cause of every Witcher on the goddamn Continent, I would never ask that of you.’</p><p>‘If you stood next to me, in full armour, sword drawn, and a Kikimora crossed our path, would you ask me to fight it instead?’</p><p>‘No?’ Geralt says, confused.</p><p>‘Exactly. This is a battle of words, Geralt, changing the minds of men, and I was trained for this since birth. Allow me to do my work, and use this time to recover your strength. </p><p>‘It doesn’t need to be all at once, Jaskier. Even someone as talented as you would find it difficult to change the minds of the whole world in less than a season.’</p><p>‘No-one else will. And you don’t deserve it.’</p><p>‘As you say.’ Geralt manages. ‘But you have to look after yourself.’</p><p>‘There’s so much to do.’ Jaskier says, but his exhaustion is too visible to bear. </p><p>‘There’s no rush. Please? For me? Come to bed, just for a while.’ He tries to make his eyes wide, as Jaskier does when he’s being particularly persuasive, and Jaskier gulps.</p><p>A deep burning cinnamon scent rises in the air, and he takes advantage of Jaskier’s pause to tow him over to the doorway. </p><p>Jaskier relents eventually, and lets himself be fussed over, slinking onto his side of the bed while Geralt patiently helps him tug off his trousers and unlace his shirt, until Jaskier is soft and bare, blinking sleepily up at him in his smallclothes and yawning. </p><p>The sun has only barely set, but he climbs in as well, letting Jaskier arrange himself as he likes, until his head rests on Geralt’s chest and their limbs are tangled beneath the blankets. </p><p>Geralt takes a deep breath, and then starts to hum, one of Jaskier’s sweeter tunes about glimmering fish in a lake, and Jaskier is quickly soothed straight into exhausted sleep.</p><p> </p><p>..</p><p> </p><p>Eskel leaves, before the weather turns, but it is only a farewell, and not a final parting. Though part of him longs to follow, to test the waters and see if Kaer Morhen will still be a refuge for him, he promised Jaskier a winter, and the least he can do is honour that promise. </p><p>He does feel more himself, smiles and words coming easier than ever, the curse gripping him a little less tightly under Jaskier’s care, and when safely ensconced in his lands, where the humans are used to his presence and treat him with no little fondness.</p><p>It might be different, out on the Path, but he can feel something shifting in the haunted corners of his mind, tender and raw, breathless before the plunge.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Jaskier writes. He wakes with the dawn and shambles, bleary-eyed, to the library, and he writes, the scratching of his quills in constant counterpoint to his heartbeat. His hands are always splattered with ink, and he stays up well into the night, the soft wax of the candles slowly dripping on to the floor.</p><p>Geralt gives up on trying to cajole him into an early night, and just picks him up instead, carrying him carefully to their room, and Jaskier falls asleep in his arms before he even reaches the door.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>The bonfires are lit, and they sit huddled together on a bench, knocking knees and sharing long swallows of some local red straight from the bottle. There was a feast, for all the village to join, and the servants have the week off at Samhain, for the observance of ‘not-quite-religion’, as Jaskier put it. Geralt watches him gesturing extravagantly while he explains it, as the maidens dance round the fire and throw dappled shadows on his face. </p><p>‘It’s a local custom… Sort of a pause between the harvest and the winter. We say farewell to our loved ones, if they have passed on, and the veil between worlds is said to be thinner, so that there’s a chance of them hearing us.’</p><p>His voice is terribly gentle, and Geralt pauses under the weight of it, just to think for a moment.</p><p>‘What…’ He whispers. ‘What would I have to do?’</p><p>Jaskier’s hand finds his, a warm comfort under the dark sky, and he will never be ready, but it’s easier to name it in the deep of the night, with the flush of wine in his cheeks. Jaskier has never asked what happened, and Geralt knows he never will.</p><p>‘Ribbons, in colours that remind you of them. Braided together, while you think on what you would say if they stood before you. Then burned with rosemary on the bonfires, so that the ash ascends to the heavens, and the gods whisper your secrets to their resting souls.’</p><p>Geralt doubts that Renfri ever knew a moment of rest, but the hope is not bitter when he thinks on it.</p><p>He nods, and Jaskier leads him over to the table of ribbons, where he picks a deep brown, for the flashing of her eyes, a vivid red, for all the blood she spilled, and her own as he ended it, and gold, for the broach he still carries as a token.</p><p>He weaves them together, copying Jaskier’s hands carefully as he braids his own ribbon into a neat spiral. Geralt’s crown of ribbon is less tidily done, but he thinks it would have suited her better than the one she was born for.</p><p>The only prayer he can come up with is an apology, but it seems fitting to offer it to any god that listens, and if somewhere among the stars she hears it, he will be glad. </p><p>He bids her farewell in the dim corners of his mind, and perhaps it is the penitence he seeks, or the curse lifting for a moment, but he almost catches her sharp laughter on the wind. </p><p>They burn their wreaths together, rosemary rising sharp and sweet in his nose, and they settle in the damp grass to watch the ash spiral and spark up into the sky. </p><p>Slowly, haltingly, he whispers to Jaskier beside him – Jaskier; who never asked about Blaviken but followed him anyway, who has never smelled of fear, who has given him comfort and a place to rest, and much more besides; he whispers the truth of what happened to make men call him Butcher, that he has told no other.</p><p>Then like the breaking of a dam, it all spills out; the curse, the truth of the years he spent alone, how Jaskier was the first person to speak his name in a decade, and how he still has to check the bard is real by his side; and he can feel Jaskier shaking with tears beside him, grief audible in every hollow breath.</p><p>He doesn’t interrupt, he just listens; and Geralt lets the words pour out unstoppably, the relief too great to halt, and he stares at the flames until his eyes burn, and he talks until his throat is dry and aching, but it is worth it.</p><p>He feels freer than he has in years, once there are no more words to speak, and Jaskier stays by his side, and laces their hands together firmly. </p><p>Jaskier stays, and Geralt is grateful beyond expression that he has a friend to call his own, the very best anyone on the Continent could hope to be worthy of. </p><p>Jaskier chose him, with no ties of kin or clan, and though their Paths are different, they can walk them together.  </p><p>Dawn washes over them slowly, faint blue appearing and chasing the shadows from the sky, and Geralt sits on cool grass, mind and soul finally quiet, as Jaskier sits beside him, their sides brushing close enough to feel the warmth of his body, and they listen together to the first sweet larksong echoing over the still burning embers of the Samhain fires.  </p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>At the deepest dark of winter, Geralt goes to bed one night, and then doesn’t leave it for three weeks.</p><p>A weight lies upon him when he stirs in the morning, sapping his strength and sending sadness seeping through every vein. His thoughts are all maudlin and self-pitying. He cannot see the use of anything, but rolls over and goes back to sleep. </p><p>He cannot summon the energy to go and see Roach when he knows she is in capable hands, but Jaskier doesn’t push.</p><p>Instead, he asks the servants to lift his desk from the study out into the corridor, and then drags it in himself, setting up a little workspace in the corner of the bedroom.</p><p>He takes on all the cleaning duties so the servants don’t disturb Geralt, dusting goodnaturedly and struggling to change the sheets on the bed alone while Geralt stands blearily by his side, weak with exhaustion.</p><p>He asks Geralt what he would like for dinner, and when he receives no response, brings him whatever is easiest to eat so he doesn’t have to fuss with cutlery, and fetches little treats that the cook whips up to tempt him to eat more. </p><p>He keeps up a conversation alone, as usual, a cheerful patter of nonsense that Geralt can easily block out, or allow to distract him. </p><p>Geralt leaves the bed only to go to the privy, and vacillates between staring out of the window unseeing while the world spins out without him, or sleeping for long blurry stretches that last for days.</p><p>Jaskier doesn’t leave his side, but stays.</p><p>He climbs into bed next to him and reads stories aloud by candlelight, and falls asleep next to Geralt while the Witcher stares at the ceiling apathetically. </p><p>The fourth week of his withdrawal, he feels a little more himself, and he manages to heave himself up in the bed when Jaskier arrives with their dinner tray, and turns to look at him, receiving a bright smile at the movement.</p><p>The question simmers in his mind, and his voice is rough and scratchy with disuse when he asks it.</p><p>‘Why are you doing this?’</p><p>This kindness, this <em>devotion</em>, that the bard is capable of, he doesn’t know how to feel anything but humbled in the face of it. </p><p>Jaskier stops dead in his tracks for a moment, and then places the dinner tray gently on his desk.</p><p>He wrings his hands for a moment, arranging his thoughts as Geralt has seen him do a hundred times before, and then a trace of that implacable steel stiffens his spine. He shifts by the firelight, slipping naturally into that stern grace that lies beneath his usual easy cheer, solemn and serious as Geralt has ever seen him. </p><p>‘I’m a bard. How many people do you think I will save?’</p><p>Geralt watches him, as he paces beside the fireplace, mercy and strength bared to the world.</p><p>‘For a world riddled with evil and true monsters, for every child snatched by nekkers, for every life cut short by something they had no hope of fighting…’ His voice rises and the tension snaps wire-thin around them as Jaskier clenches his fists tightly.<br/>
‘…For each square inch of this blasted world that thinking breathing creatures have managed to scrape and fight to live on, for every forest that used to be haunted by ghosts and now rings with birdsong, there is a fulcrum.’ </p><p>Geralt twists his fingers in the sheets of the bed, eyes never once leaving Jaskier’s face. The speech sounds as though Jaskier has thought about this often, but still real, still honest, as if Jaskier has waited for him to ask. He echoes the sternest kings, sending warriors into battle, and Geralt is swept up in the storm and fury.</p><p>‘Just one Witcher, one man alone, can turn the tide and save thousands from death, or from lives lived in fear of enemies without a hope of victory.’</p><p>Jaskier makes the work sound like something bigger than it is. Something grander than scraping out a living on what little they can get, while humans spit as they pass in the streets.</p><p>‘For all the lives you have saved, the deaths you have prevented, unthanked and unappreciated.’</p><p>Jaskier looks infuriated now, but Geralt knows his thunderous rage is not for him, but for all the world outside their window, and it soothes an old hurt that he didn’t realise he still nursed to see him so outraged on his behalf.</p><p>‘For all the lives you <em>will</em> save. For the stories humans will tell their children, years hence, of when monsters used to be real.’</p><p>He sounds so sincere. There is no trace of a lie anywhere in his demeanour. He really does believe Witchers are more than the vermin they are treated as, and Geralt should never have doubted him for a moment.</p><p>‘Even if you left the Path tomorrow and took up beekeeping, you would still be more noble than any knight in any of the old tales.’ Jaskier’s flash of anger fades from the air, and he turns to face the bed, tears caught in his lashes and glinting in the firelight. ’You are a good man, Geralt, and I have known that since the first day we met.’</p><p>Jaskier kneels at his feet, wiping his eyes, and Geralt clutches at his hand fiercely. </p><p>‘If a bard can save one life, then gods above, let it be yours.’</p><p>Geralt pulls him into his arms, and the storm breaks. If it still rages outside their walls, they do not know it.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>The worst of the winter is over, but spring has not yet arrived. </p><p>Geralt trains harder, building up his hard-won muscle, shoulders now broad enough to merit a whole new round of tailor’s appointments that he bears with all the grace he can muster. </p><p>He works up a sweat one briskly sunny day in the courtyard, and then takes to running drills shirtless, as he would in Kaer Morhen. He surfaces from his intent focus after an hour of sword exercises, and a gaggle of maids are peeking round the corner, giggling and whispering amongst themselves. </p><p>He pauses, uncertain, but they are smiling and blushing, not staring in horror at his scarred body. They scarper when they realise they’ve been caught watching, and Geralt’s ears go pink.</p><p>He hadn’t thought his form could be appealing to humans anymore, but the maids are always kind to him, well-used to his presence, and he doesn’t mistake their smiles for jeers. He grins a little, almost preening before he chuckles wryly at himself and picks up his sword for another round.</p><p>A little tendril of thought unfurls before he can stop it, that perhaps Jaskier might find him appealing, and a hot shiver trickles down his spine.</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>He loves Jaskier, and the thought is so obvious it hardly seems a revelation at all, only a fact. How could he not? Jaskier is beautiful, and kind, and saved him from a lonely life and a miserable death.</p><p>For all the grand tales of noble heroes rescuing fair maidens that Geralt listened to eagerly in the dim years with Visenna, Jaskier is Geralt’s own knight in shining armour. </p><p>Though he wields no sword, and prefers words to weapons, he brought Geralt back from the edge, and let light back into the world.</p><p>He remembers dimly having scented Jaskier’s lust before, and too apathetic to care about it.</p><p>If Jaskier wants him, if they could be happy together, here, or on the Path, or even at Kaer Morhen, where Jaskier could meet his family and hear all the tales of Witchers he could hope for.</p><p>The hope of a future unfurls before him, where before there was only a grim descent into madness and death. The first thing he has wanted for himself in ten long years is within his grasp, and he cannot bear to leave the chance of it for a moment more, but makes up his mind swiftly and plunges into action.  </p><p>Geralt marches up to Jaskier’s study, still dripping with sweat and leaving his tunic behind entirely. </p><p>Jaskier looks up when he enters, and the smile freezes on his face as his mouth drops open gratifyingly swiftly.</p><p>‘Ah, Geralt..’ He stammers. ‘What, er, what brings you to my door?’</p><p>Hot cinnamon burns in the air, and Jaskier’s cheeks are pink. He steps closer to Jaskier before he loses all momentum, in love and bold with it. </p><p>Jaskier stands up as he approaches, looking uncertain, but he lets Geralt pull him gently into his arms even as his heart patters wildly. </p><p>‘May I?’ murmurs Geralt, tugging a lock of soft brown hair behind his ear.</p><p>He nods, and then Geralt kisses him, and the bard melts under his touch, sighing softly and responding beautifully to his clumsy remembrance of seduction.</p><p>He keeps the kiss at a steady simmer instead of igniting his passion further, cradling Jaskier’s warm cheek with his own hands, and then lets their lips part reluctantly, already craving more.</p><p>Jaskier looks bewildered, and Geralt hums in response, savouring the sweet taste of apple-honey on his tongue.</p><p>‘I just realised I love you.’ </p><p>Jaskier sits down heavily on his chair, staring up at Geralt in shock.</p><p>‘I don’t think…’ He stammers. ‘It’s too soon.’</p><p>Geralt clenches his fists, but he can see clearly now, and anger will not rob him of that.</p><p>‘I’m not broken.’ Geralt spits, trying to restrain himself, though the doubt on Jaskier’s face still hurts.</p><p>‘I love you.’ Jaskier says, simply, and the sound of it rings in his ears indelibly. ‘And I will not take advantage of your guilt.’</p><p>The words pour out easily, for once, desperation to try and make Jaskier understand.</p><p>‘It’s not guilt, or gratitude, or anything else you can try and excuse. Give me the benefit of knowing my own mind.’</p><p>Though he is grateful to Jaskier, there is no debt between them that could make him feel like this. Jaskier is light, and warmth, and safety, and Geralt is selfish enough to ask for more from him, when he has already given so much. </p><p>‘I don’t want you to feel beholden to me, or trapped. All I ask for is time. For you to be certain. I wouldn’t be able… I wouldn’t be able to trust it, unless you were sure.’ His voice trembles, and Jaskier’s heart is racing, fear heavy and bitter in the air. </p><p>Geralt has never seen Jaskier look scared before, of anything, and it breaks his heart that this is what terrifies the bard, that Geralt might not love him so dearly, that Geralt could do anything less than give himself body and soul to the only person who has ever chosen him in truth.</p><p>Geralt sinks to his knees in front of him, and laces their fingers together, pressing a gentle kiss to his palm. </p><p>‘I love you. We have all the time in the world, there’s no rush. I can wait for as long as you need. But I love you today, and I will love you tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after that as well.’</p><p>Jaskier’s breath shudders, and he smiles, a little of that fear soothed.</p><p>‘Even if you don’t…’ He tries, dropping Geralt’s gaze and staring at their entwined hands instead. ‘If you change your mind, if you want someone else, we’ll still be friends. You’ll always be welcome wherever I am.’</p><p>‘You’ll always be the very best friend anyone could ask for. And you’re not allowed to change your mind, you’re stuck with me now.’ Geralt teases, grinning cheekily up at Jaskier, loved and in love, and giddy with possibility. </p><p>No matter how long Jaskier asks for, he will wait patiently. </p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Spring arrives, and Geralt’s feet grow restless.</p><p>‘A season,’ Jaskier says. ‘A season apart.’</p><p>‘Why?’ He asks, a bitter lump of hurt sticking in his throat.</p><p>‘You know I care for you. By now, you cannot doubt that, at least.’</p><p>‘I know, Jaskier. I do.’</p><p>Jaskier stares him down, and he tries to let his certainty show on his face.</p><p>‘I care for you, but I want you to care for yourself as well.’</p><p>‘Take to the Path, without you?’</p><p>‘The truth needs time to settle. That you can have a life without me, so that you can choose one with me. A real choice.’</p><p>So that Jaskier can be sure he hasn’t just latched onto the first person to be kind to him in ten years, is what he means. </p><p>It makes sense, loath as Geralt is to admit it. If this is the proof Jaskier needs, then he will travel alone for the season, as he is asked, but it will make no difference. Geralt has made his choice, and each day falls more in love, and Jaskier’s absence will not change that. He will still love Jaskier, whether the bard is by his side or not. He has the memories of this peaceful winter to dwell on and hold dear, and Geralt is stubborn, but his choice is true, and his love is untouched by gratitude or guilt, it simply is. </p><p>‘I want you to be happy with me, and I want you to be happy without me.’</p><p>Geralt smiles. Jaskier is always kind, even to his own detriment. </p><p>‘I am happy with you. But I shall try to be happy without you, as you ask, though my love is terribly cruel to send me from his side.’ He kisses Jaskier’s cheek, and pulls out the worn maps, looking for the best place to meet when summer rolls around.</p><p>They part as friends when the snowdrops bloom, and Geralt lets Roach lead them out of the estate, turning about in the saddle to catch one more tiny glimpse of Jaskier in the distance.</p><p>He corners the servants before he leaves, and they promise that they will take good care of Jaskier, and make sure he rests and looks after himself, which relieves his fears somewhat. He is sent off with finely made armour, new tack for Roach and provisions to last him weeks. Jaskier gifts him a book of his own poetry, that he might carry something of him on his travels, and Geralt studies it in the evenings by his campfire, tracing the words and finding snatches of the man he knows hidden amongst the pages.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>Geralt has passed through three villages when the results of Jaskier’s tireless efforts begin to catch up with him.</p><p>The blacksmith sizes him up, while he asks the alderman for work, and drops a quiet word in his ear about the last time they’d had need of a Witcher, and the fields that once lay fallow, that are now free of taint and workable once Lambert, of all people, had cleared them out of a particularly nasty noonwraith a few years back.</p><p>The alderman nods slowly, and hires the Butcher of Blaviken to go after a few drowners that linger round the nearby river. </p><p>He does the work gladly, and there is enough coin to buy Roach a few carrots as a treat left over from the purse, and he spoils her as he hasn’t been able to afford in years.</p><p>He hears snatches of children’s songs, as he passes, catchy little chants about monsters and the Witchers that slay them. </p><p>The next village is even better, and he is allowed to stay a night at the inn, even given a meal that no-one has spat in. The innkeeper’s son was nearly dragged off by a griffin two years before, until a Witcher came across him. They have heard Jaskier’s songs, performed by one of the bards that travels this village on his circuit, and the fact that their village is named in one of them is a source of great local pride. </p><p>He gets asked if he knows of the bard, and finds himself eagerly telling of Jaskier’s exploits, delighted to assist in the building of Jaskier’s own fame.</p><p>The pattern continues, each village and town slightly more receptive to Witchers, alive with songs and stories that Jaskier sent blazing into the world. There are still folk who turn their nose up at him, or make warding-signs as he passes, but there always will be, and Geralt cannot believe that one man has achieved so much in so little time.</p><p>If Jaskier thought this season apart would change Geralt’s mind, he was sadly mistaken. He is more in awe of Jaskier than ever.</p><p>He gets contracts fairly easily, and he can sit in taverns without too much trouble, and he can keep himself and Roach fed, with enough left over for little occasional treats.</p><p>This is more than enough to satisfy him, and he is content, though he longs for Jaskier’s bright cheer at his side. Even to sit and polish his sword, listening to that ceaseless lute across the campfire, would be a blessing. He manages well enough without, but he can’t help wanting it.</p><p>Sometimes, in the beauty of the dawn, when he and Roach are alone on the road, with full bellies and the promise of a welcoming inn that night, he does feel happy.</p><p>Sometimes the curse creeps back up on him, but he bears through it by gritting his teeth and enduring, and it makes it harder to recall the colour of Jaskier’s hair, or the precise blue of his eyes, but he has hope now, and that makes all the difference. </p><p>He can have a life to himself, with small joys and miseries, and so can Jaskier, but they can have a better one together. </p><p>Every corner of the land is growing, lush grass and flowers blooming, all pulling desperately towards the heat of summer, and he counts down the days, joy echoed in spring showers and the bluebells that lead him along the path to his love.</p><p>He gets to Novigrad a week early, and everyday he waits outside the city with Roach, keeping watch on all the approaching roads for a flash of colourful doublet and a snatch of song.</p><p>On the morning of Belleteyn, he hears the humming of that familiar lute in the distance, and spurs Roach into a mad gallop to meet Jaskier, dashing across the fields towards sweet music.</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>He lives with the curse, and the curse lives with him.</p><p>He lives with Jaskier, and Jaskier lives with him.</p><p>But he <em>lives</em>.</p><p> </p><p>...</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>my love to darling nate, and my apologies for the exceptionally long wait for the second half of your birthday present!!!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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